


Grif and Simmons Ruin Christmas

by Lepord257



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 06:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17157035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lepord257/pseuds/Lepord257
Summary: “Yeah sure, whatever,” Grif waves off the protest and falls backwards onto his bed. “When were you planning on telling me your dad invited you home for Christmas?”Secret Santa gift for ImmortalError. Meery Christmas!





	Grif and Simmons Ruin Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IneffableNightmare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableNightmare/gifts).



After the Staff of Charon and before Iris, Simmons receives a message from his father. It takes him two weeks to notice.

Ever since they’d re-established contact with the rest of the galaxy, the Reds and Blues and Carolina have been bombarded with emails, phone calls, video chats, text messages, and, on one memorable occasion, actual paper mail from everyone from old acquaintances to family members to UNSC officials. Apparently taking down a corrupt military organization, disappearing for over a year in a mysterious shipwreck, and broadcasting a distress signal about an attempted planetary genocide earns you a bit of notoriety.

So when Scott Simmons sends Richard Simmons an email with the subject line “Holiday Plans” two days after the siege ends, it is promptly buried under casualty reports, marching orders, interview requests, and court summons.

Buried, that is, until Grif steals Simmons’ data pad with the intent of sending everyone on his contact list spam emails for penis enlargement pills sold by the prince of Nigeria who will use the proceeds to build roller rinks for Chorusan children in need. What he finds instead promises to be more entertaining than any email scam could hope to be.

    **From:** Scott Simmons scottsims@atlasaggrregate.org

    **To:** Richard Simmons richard.simmons@unsc.mil

    **Subject:** Holiday Plans

    Richard,

   

    Your sister is taking time off from her responsibilities at Atlas Aggregate to spend Christmas and New Years at home. She, your mother, and I would appreciate you doing the same.

    Scott Simmons       

   CEO, Atlus Aggregate;      

    555-930-8938 | atlusaggregate.org

Holy shit. Holy shit. This is the best day, Holy shit. Grif scrambles for his helmet and opens a private comms channel with Simmons who is currently doing boring nerd stuff in the armory.

 _“Grif!”_ Simmons snaps with far more animosity than the situation calls for. _“I told you, I have a lot of work to do today, and so do you! In fact, half of the work I have to do today is-”_

“Yeah sure, whatever,” Grif waves off the protest and falls backwards onto his bed. “When were you planning on telling me your dad invited you home for Christmas?”

The silence on the other end is telling. _“My father…”_

“‘Would appreciate’ you spending the holidays at home.” Grif reads, disdain dripping from his words. “Apparently your sister’s coming.”

 _“That’s. That’s, um. Great!”_ Well that’s reluctant terror if Grif’s ever heard it.

“You know what would be better than Christmas at your dad’s?”

_“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”_

“Fucking up Christmas at your dad’s.”

The second silence stretches even longer than the first one. _“What do you have in mind?”_

“Ok, so hear me out,” Grif begins, already typing up a reply to Simmons Senior.

    **From:** Richard Simmons richard.simmons@unsc.mil

    **To:** Scott Simmons scottsims@atlasaggrigate.org

    **Subject:** Re: Holiday Plans

    Scott,

* * *

 

Two days into the flight home, Simmons corners Grif mid kitchen raid and demands they talk strategy.

“Strategy,” Grif repeats, balancing a seventh box of Little Debbie’s Swiss Rolls on the already wobbly stack. “It’s ruining a Christmas visit. What strategy could we possibly need.”

“A good one!” Simmons snaps, stuffing mini Sunchips bags back in the bulk variety box. “These are disgusting. Christmas is a big deal! We need a plan if we’re going to-”

“It’s _Christmas._ With a family that hates each other. Half the work is showing up. This is easily the simplest, lowest effort thing we’ve ever done.”

“We can’t just show up and expect it to go well! Poorly. Whatever.” Simmons purses his lips and tilts his head up to better look down his nose at Grif. “This needs to be a holiday so awful he never writes me again.”

“And I’m telling you, it will be!” Swiss Rolls tilt and waver as Grif slides the tower off the counter into his arms.

“If we want to sell that we’re dating-”

“Are you seriously asking to practice PDA? Is that what you’re doing right now?”

“I- That’s not- Well-”

“Stop flailing, you’re gonna hit me in the face.”  
  
“Take this seriously!”

Grif fixes Simmons with the most unimpressed look he can muster. “You want to hold hands? Call each other pet names?”

“I-”

“Lean down, I need to kiss you on the cheek.”

“GRIF!”

“I thought so.” Grif tucks his chin on top of the Swiss Roll tower and saunters out of the kitchen, leaving Simmons sputtering and bright red in his wake.

* * *

The trip from Chorus to Connecticut takes three weeks, five days, four hours, and 12 minutes. Three of those hours are fighting with customs, picking up luggage, renting a car, and brute forcing through traffic and snowstorms. By the time Grif’s parked the rental car directly behind the Simmons’ dad’s shiny new lexus, all he wants is to stuff his face with some else’s cooking and sleep for twelve hours. Scratch that, all he wants is to stuff his face, sleep for twelve hours, and for Simmons to stop _fidgeting._

“Dude, it’s gonna be fine.”

Simmons doesn’t respond for a second, staring out the window up the walkway. Salt on concrete makes the walkway look gritty and splotchy - the only thing maring the otherwise picture perfect landscaping.

“Simmons.”

Simmons startles at Grif’s hand on his arm.

“Huh?”

“It’s gonna be fine.”

Simmons wraps his coat tighter around himself, staring determindly at the dashboard. “Of course it is.”

Grif frowns, but there’s nothing left to say. Instead, he gets out of the car, steadies Simmons when he slips on the driveway, and refuses to let himself think about how he doesn’t pull away after. Grif’s hand is still in Simmons’ when he rings the doorbell.

The door opens a minute later to a smiling woman who looks like an older, genderbent Simmons. “You made it!” Simmons is swept up in a tight hug and dragged through the front door. Grif follows, shutting the door behind him. He’s pulling off his shoes when Simmons’ mom releases him and turns to Grif instead.

“Mom, this is, um, my uh-”  
  
“You must be Grif!” That’s all the warning he gets before he’s being smothered by red curls and cashmere wool. “We’re so happy to have you here!” She pulls back and examines him at arm's length. Grif’s instantly teleported to room inspections at basic. “Aren’t we dear?”

There’s a disinterested hum from the family room over Mrs. Simmons’ shoulder. There’s a flicker of a frown, gone as soon as it appears, and she’s beaming again, gesturing towards the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready, go wash up.”

Simmons pauses in hanging up his coat to murmur a quick “Yes ma’am,” and pulls Grif into the house. Grif let’s him, until-

“Dude.”

_“What?”_

“Shoes.”

Simmons looks at him blankly.

“Oh my God. Do you not take your shoes off inside?”

The blushing and indignant eyebrow furrow is not reassuring.

“I can’t do this. Simmons, we need a divorce.”

Mrs. Simmons pokes her head out from where she’s vanished into the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Dick doesn’t write us often. Are you-”

Endless possibilities dance in his mind’s eye. “Yes.”

Simmons doesn’t look nearly as excited as he should be. _“Nooooooooo.”_

“Yes, we are.” This is going to be the best Christmas ever.

* * *

 

“So Grif, what made you want to join the military?”

“Seemed like a better deal than a life sentence.”

_“Grif, what the fuck?”_

* * *

Christmas Eve finds Grif in the kitchen using chunks of a previously very pretty gingerbread house to eat ice cream directly out of the carton. He feels a little bad for ruining Mrs. Simmons handywork, but the look on Simmons Senior’s face when Grif offered him a bite was more than worth it. Especially when the cartoon was marked “Scott’s” with a label from an honest to God label maker. Scott had declined, shut the still open freezer door, and retreated to the living room. Grif had re-opened the freezer.

He can’t wait to see his reaction when he realizes Grif’s sweater says “Santa’s Favorite Ho”.

In the meantime, Simmons is prolonging the inevitable with ill-advised father-son bonding. Or attempted bonding. Awkward small talk.

“We didn’t really let her drive cars after that.”

“Mhm.”

“But! She’s very good! At fixing them!”

“Mhm.”

Pause. Grif wonders why Scott feels strongly enough about mint chocolate chip to claim an entire carton for himself. There’s unclaimed cookies and cream right there.

“I redid the entire inventory system for the Chorus army.”

“Did you now.” There’s the sound of a newspaper page turning. Asshole has a paper newspaper. Grif didn’t know they still made those.

“Before the armies merged they were using different systems so things got integrated wrong in the shuffle. We managed to lose half our rations and our entire stock of DMRs.”

Pause.

“But I found them! And a couple hundred sniper rounds.”

Pause. Then, “Useful.”

Grif can see Simmons’ hopeful expression in his mind’s eye. There’s gotta be a catch.

“But hardly ambitious.”

There it is. Time for damage control. A gingerbread head breaks off in the ice cream and Grif abandons the whole thing on the kitchen island. “You want ambition?” he asks, sitting close enough to Simmons that he’s practically on the guy’s lap. “How about Blood Gulch when Kai showed up?”

It’s hard to tell if Simmons is blushing because Grif’s hooked an ankle around Simmons’ or because he’s remembering the Incident. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies.

Grif leans forward conspiratorial. “Simmons buried our CO alive and declared himself the new leader.”

That pretty much ends the conversation.

* * *

Grif is shaken awake the next morning before the sun is even up. He blinks up at the dark blobs that resolve themselves into a vaguely Simmons-shaped mass and wonders, not for the first time, why he’s friends with a sadistic asshole.

_“Grif!”_

Nothing could be worth this.

  
_“Grif!”_

Maybe if he rolls over he can pretend he’s still asleep and Simmons will leave him alone.

_“Don’t you fucking dare, we have a huge problem!”_

Grif props himself up on his elbows and gives the man lying next to him the best death glare he can manage while still half asleep. “What. The fuck. Do you want?”

Simmons turns on the lamp on the bedside table and gestured at their suitcases stacked in the corner. “We forgot to bring presents.”

Grif looks at the suitcases. Then he looks at Simmons. Then he flops back down and pulls the blankets over his head. Simmons yanks them back down.  
  
“Focus! We need to fix this. If we go out the window and climb down the drainpipe-”

Jesus fucking Christ. “No. Just- No. Listen, it doesn’t matter. We’ll be gone before it’s time for that anyway.”

“It’s Christmas morning _right now!”_

Grif pulls the covers over Simmons head. “Go to sleep.”

_“Grif!”_

The next time Grif wakes up, the sun is up and Simmons’ side of the bed is cold and empty. The faint smell of maple syrup drift up from the kitchen, and muffled conversation is cut off by the the chime of the doorbell. The sister arrives at last. Grif reluctantly rolls out of bed and retrieves his sweater from where Simmons had thrown it in the hamper the night before. Go time.

If Simmons was his mother’s kid, his sister was his dad’s. They had the same dark hair, same short stature, the same grey eyes. Simmons is hovering next to her as she hangs up her coat. She passes Grif when she heads towards the kitchen and yup, she even has her dad’s self-satisfied smirk that makes him want to punch something.

“Smells great Mom,” she says, snagging a seat at the kitchen island.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I made the bacon extra crispy, just for you.”

Thank _you_ Mrs. Simmons for continuing to provide him with perfect setups. Your contribution is appreciated.

Grif snags a piece from the serving platter as Mrs. Simmons sets it on the dining table. “Bacon huh?” Her face goes careful blank. “Wanna strip?”

* * *

"I told you we’d be gone before presents.”

Simmons looked up from his phone long enough to shoot Grif a poisonous glare. Talk about an overreaction. Like he wasn’t beyond thrilled to be spending the morning at Denny’s instead of across the table from Scott fucking Simmons. Honestly, he should be thanking him.

“You could have at least given me a heads up,” Simmons mutters.

“You jealous?”

“No!”

“You’re totally jealous,” Grif gloats. “Don’t worry babe, you’re the only one for me.”  
  
“WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT, SARGE SENT US AN EMAIL!”

“Shit, really?” Grif shoves his pancakes out of the way so he can lean over the table so he can see the phone.

“Dear Dirtbags,” Simmons reads, angling the phone so Grif can’t read it. “Best wishes on your xmas death duel. No signature.”

Grif snorts and sinks back into the booth. “How thoughtful.”

Simmons nods absently, bookmarking the email. What a nerd.

“Hey, Simmons?”

“Hm?”

“Merry Christmas, asshole.”

Simmons shot Grif the first legitimate smile he’d seen since they landed on Earth. It felt like a victory. “You too fatass.”

“Still want to practice PDA?”

“I hate you.” But he took his hand anyway.


End file.
